Page 20 of For Vengeance

"Which means the victims aren't random," Derik concluded. "He's choosing them deliberately, based on his experiences or observations in the neighborhood."

"Exactly," Morgan agreed. "And if we're right about him living in Santiago Heights, that gives us a much narrower search parameter. We need to look at longtime residents with the skills and temperament for this kind of vigilantism."

She turned back to the map, studying the streets and blocks of Santiago Heights with renewed focus. For someone to develop this level of territorial protectiveness, to know the criminal patterns of the neighborhood so intimately, they would need to have lived there for years, perhaps decades.

"I need to go there," she decided. "Get a feel for the community, the dynamics, see if our theory holds up on the ground."

Derik looked concerned. "Alone? After what Walsh said about witnesses not cooperating with law enforcement?"

Morgan understood his worry, but she also knew that a heavy law enforcement presence would shut down any chance of genuine interaction with residents. "I'll be careful," she promised. "But I need to understand this place if we're going to identify our killer. See it through his eyes, understand what drives him to 'protect' it so violently."

"I'll stay here," Derik conceded, recognizing the determination in her voice. "Review the security footage from near the garage. Forensics is expecting preliminary results on the bullet comparison by noon."

Morgan nodded, already mentally preparing for the visit. Santiago Heights wasn't just any neighborhood in Dallas—it was a community with its own rules, its own code of silence, its own methods of handling problems. Outsiders weren't welcomed easily, especially those with badges.

"You know what really bothers me about this case?" she said, turning away from the map to face Derik directly. "I understand him. Our unsub. I get the anger at seeing the system fail repeatedly, watching the same criminals victimize the same communities while justice looks the other way." She hesitated, then admitted what had been troubling her since they discovered the pattern. "After ten years wrongfully imprisoned, watching the real criminals walk free, I've felt that same rage."

Derik's expression softened, concern replacing the professional detachment he typically maintained during case discussions. "There's a difference, Morgan. You channel that anger into legitimate pursuit of justice. Our unsub has crossed a line, appointed himself judge, jury, and executioner. That's not justice—it's vengeance."

Morgan knew he was right, had told herself the same thing repeatedly. But the line between justice and vengeance sometimes blurred, especially in the face of systemic failures that allowed predators to continue harming vulnerable communities. Her own pursuit of Cordell balanced precariously on that same line—was she seeking justice for his crimes, or vengeance for what he had taken from her?

"I know," she acknowledged. "And that's why I need to understand him better—to remember where that line is, why it matters." She gathered her jacket and credentials, preparing to head out. "I'll check in regularly. If our theory is right, the answers we need are in Santiago Heights."

As Morgan headed toward the elevator, the weight of multiple pressures settled across her shoulders once more. Cordell's ultimatum continued its inexorable countdown—four days remaining before he made good on his threats against her father, against Derik, against everyone she cared about. The vigilante killer stalked the streets of Santiago Heights, potentially selecting his next target even now. And somewhere in the middle of these dangers stood Morgan herself, trying to maintain the boundary between justice and the darker impulses that whispered to her in moments of doubt.

Understanding this killer felt disturbingly like understanding a part of herself she'd fought to control since her release from prison—the part that sometimes wondered if legal justice was enough, if some predators deserved more permanent solutions. The vigilante had crossed that line, embraced what Morgan had resisted. And now she needed to enter his territory, see through his eyes, without losing her own moral compass in the process.

The elevator doors closed, sealing her in momentary solitude as she descended toward the parking garage. Santiago Heights awaited, with its secrets and silences and the answers she needed to find before another confession was written at gunpoint, before another execution was carried out in the name of justice that had never been designed to be delivered at the barrel of a gun.

CHAPTER TWELVE

He moved through Santiago Heights like a ghost—present but unnoticed, familiar yet invisible. The afternoon sun cast sharp shadows across the cracked sidewalks, warming the autumn air just enough to draw residents outside without their jackets. Perfect conditions for his daily reconnaissance.

Three deaths in two weeks. He could almost feel the increased police presence, like a change in atmospheric pressure before a storm. Unmarked vehicles parked at odd angles, plainclothes officers trying too hard to blend in, asking questions that locals pretended not to understand. The dance was as familiar as it was ineffective. Santiago Heights had perfected the art of silence long before he'd taken up his mission.

He'd perfected the art of blending in even longer ago. Average height. Average build. Forgettable features. Decades of being overlooked had taught him how to move through spaces without creating ripples, how to observe without being observed. He wore beige khakis and a navy windbreaker today—clothes that belonged nowhere and everywhere, that drew no attention and left no impression.

The corner of Maple and Westmoreland always provided a wealth of intelligence. He paused at the bus stop, pretending to check a schedule he'd memorized years ago. Twenty feet away, Darnell Wilson conducted business with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd never faced consequences. Small plastic bags exchanged for cash, quick handshakes that concealed the transactions from casual observers.

Wilson had been on his list for months now. Third-tier dealer, not significant enough to warrant immediate attention while bigger targets remained. But he'd risen several places after Rodriguez's execution. Nature abhorred a vacuum; Rodriguez's territory wouldn't remain unclaimed for long.

He made a mental note to increase surveillance on Wilson. The dealer's patterns were still developing, his confidence growing daily as he expanded into Rodriguez's former territory. Soon, perhaps. But not yet.

A police cruiser rolled slowly down Westmoreland, the officers inside scanning faces with professional detachment. He turned slightly, angling his body away without making the movement obvious, focusing on the bus schedule with apparent absorption. The cruiser continued past, its occupants never giving him a second glance.

The sense of power that came with such invisibility never failed to satisfy him. They were looking so hard, and yet they couldn't see what stood directly before them. Justice, walking among them in comfortable shoes and unremarkable clothes.

He continued his patrol, moving east toward Jefferson Boulevard. The map of Santiago Heights existed in his mind with perfect clarity—every alley, every fire escape, every blind corner committed to memory through years of patient observation. He knew which security cameras were functional and which were empty deterrents. Which streetlights would fail first after sunset. Which buildings had roof access and which were sealed. Knowledge accumulated over decades, refined through meticulous attention.

Three teenage boys lounged against the wall of the corner market, passing a vape pen between them. They should be in school. He recognized two of them—Garcia's youngest and the Henderson boy, both from families struggling to keep their children from the neighborhood's gravitational pull toward criminality. The third was unfamiliar, older, his posture suggesting authority over the younger boys.

Recruitment is in progress. He filed away the older boy's face for future reference. Not a target himself—not yet—but worth monitoring as a potential catalyst for others' descent into criminal behavior.

His phone vibrated once in his pocket. He checked it casually, maintaining his unhurried pace along the sidewalk. A message from work—schedule confirmation for tomorrow's shift. He replied with a brief acknowledgment, his thumb moving efficiently across the screen. Maintaining appearances, preserving the ordinary life that served as both cover and contrast for his true purpose.

The duality no longer felt strange. Twenty-seven years in Santiago Heights, watching from the sidelines as the neighborhood transformed around him. Twenty-seven years of observing as the system failed repeatedly, as predators were caught and released, caught and released in an endless cycle that mocked the concept of justice. The decision to step from observation to action had come gradually, then suddenly—like water slowly filling a vessel until a single additional drop caused it to overflow.

Rodriguez had been that final drop. Watching him sell to the Menendez girl, barely fourteen, with her hollow eyes and too-thin frame. The same girl he'd seen carried to an ambulance three days later, her mother wailing on the sidewalk behind the stretcher. She'd survived, but something in him had not. The system's failure had finally exceeded his capacity to witness passively.

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